The Taste of Innocence (58 page)

Stokes had come to look at the map. He glanced at the others. “When he decided to right his wrongs, Sinclair didn’t hold back. His confession will save us, the authorities in general, and the public untold time and expense, and when we went down to the cellar, his accomplice—the agent Mr. Adair’s been searching for—was all trussed up waiting.”

“He’s not going to confess, but with what Sinclair’s given us, that won’t be a problem.” Barnaby’s gaze grew hard. “We didn’t read the whole of Sinclair’s confession—there’s pages and pages of it—but we read enough to be certain that Jennings—the agent—will hang.”

“But that wasn’t the end of it.” Stokes took up the tale. “We went to the solicitor’s, a few doors down the High Street. Seems Sinclair made a new will yesterday.” Stokes looked at Sarah and Charlie. “In it, he asks that restitution be made to those families and individuals who’ve been harmed by his schemes in the past, although he says the railway companies themselves shouldn’t be compensated as it was their own inefficiencies and greed that enabled him to get so much money from them. After all restitution has been paid, he’s stipulated that the residue of his estate should go to Quilley Farm orphanage, for the rebuilding of it, but not in the same place, with the rest of the funds to be used to run the orphanage, and establish others like it as needed.” Stokes paused. “He’s named you two”—he nodded at Charlie and Sarah—“as executors of his will and trustees of the orphanage fund.”

It was Charlie’s and Sarah’s turn to look stunned.

Gabriel spoke, sounding a trifle awed. “You said there were twenty-three earlier cases of suspected profiteering. Even after paying generous reparation for those, from what I’ve heard from sound sources of Sinclair’s fortune, there’s going to be a massive amount left for the fund.”

“Assuming the courts allow the will to be exercised,” Barnaby put in, “but even without a body, his assets would be confiscated as the majority must have derived from what were originally ill-gotten gains.”

Stokes nodded. “He even thought of that, and left a letter begging the courts to let the will stand. And in the circumstances, with all he’s done with his confession, and handing over his accomplice, and now that he’s dead by his own hand, saving us the bother of his trial and execution, I imagine their lordships might well look favorably on the money being used for orphaned children.” Stokes shrugged. “Who knows—even in that, he might be saving them the bother of having to decide what to do with such an amount.”

Gabriel grinned. “We can leave that to Devil and Chillingworth. I can’t imagine there’ll be many peers keen to see such largesse disappear into the Crown’s coffers.”

Feeling a trifle giddy, Sarah sank slowly into the chair behind the desk. “He wanted to do something right, something good—he said so.” She glanced at Charlie.

He met her eyes. “It seems an eminently good use for those funds he amassed through legally investing his ill-gotten gains.”

Barnaby slowly shook his head. “I still can’t get over it—the complete confession, the accomplice trussed and waiting, the will, his death. It’s as if he suddenly woke up and was shocked with himself.”

“It happens,” Stokes said. “Something will trigger it and they’ll realize what they’ve done, what they’ve become, and suddenly they can’t stand it anymore.”

“Self-disgust.” Charlie looked at Sarah, then met Barnaby’s eyes. “That was definitely there when we spoke with him.”

“But”—Barnaby leaned forward—“what triggered it?”

Charlie glanced at Sarah, and didn’t reply. That it had been through Malcolm’s remaining in the area and seeing things, relating to things, from Charlie’s perspective, and through Charlie’s link with Sarah understanding so much more, was too private a revelation. Too much something that they alone knew, had shared and now understood.

Malcolm Sinclair had gone, and left them to live. More, he’d adjured them to live life to its fullest.

Sarah smiled softly at Charlie, and said nothing, either.

“So.” Stokes peered at the map. “This is the bridge?” He pointed.

Gabriel nodded, then traced the path of the stream below the falls. “The falls themselves face west, but later, here, the stream strikes a ledge and turns north, and then eventually east until it runs into this lake.” He tapped the map. “It’s small, but deep. From there the water exits via the river to the east and eventually runs into Bridgwater Bay.”

“So we’re likely to find the body between the bottom of the falls and the lake.” Barnaby had come to stand beside Stokes.

Charlie exchanged a glance with Gabriel. “We’ve sent searchers to cover that stretch. The streambed through that section is extremely rocky, and with the recent thaw, the water is running high. If we don’t find the body before the lake, or around its shores, the chances are we won’t find it at all.”

Stokes straightened. “I’ll go and have a look at these falls, then check with the searchers.”

Barnaby nodded. “I’ll come, too.” He glanced at Charlie. “We’d better see this through to the end.”

Neither Charlie nor Gabriel saw any need to join the search. Sinclair’s body would either be found or it wouldn’t.

Together with Sarah, Charlie walked to the stables to see the others off. Gabriel departed for Casleigh, to report to Alathea, Martin, and Celia, all of whom had met Malcolm Sinclair.

Barnaby rode out with Stokes, leaving Charlie and Sarah walking slowly hand in hand back to the house.

Later, standing at the base of the falls looking up at the rock steps that used to lead to the bridge, Stokes shook his head. “Must have been a huge shock, walking off that bridge, then seeing it and Sinclair fall.”

“Look at this.” Barnaby dislodged a splintered plank from between two rocks. They were standing a good fifty yards from the jagged rocks onto which the falls constantly thundered; between lay nothing but more broken rocks over which the water churned and surged.

Turning from the stream rushing by in full spate, Barnaby showed Stokes the plank. “It’s a piece of the bridge. The wood’s weathered and hard as nails, yet the edges have been frayed like flax.” He glanced back at the falls. “If it’ll do that to hardened wood, imagine what it will have done to a body.”

Stokes grimaced. He, too, looked up at the falls. “They were right—only divine intervention could get a man through that, and I doubt any such grace was extended to Sinclair.”

Nevertheless, in a mutual quest for thoroughness and completeness, Stokes and Barnaby continued following the stream, checking in vain with the searchers they came upon and sending them back to the Park.

Dusk was falling by the time they reached the lake. There were three men there. Harris, the head gardener from the Park, came forward. “We’ve been right around, sir—twice. No body in the weeds by the edges, and none we’ve spotted anywhere in the lake. However, as you can see”—he nodded to where a visible current was rippling the lake’s surface—“the water’s running high and the current’s that strong he might well be out in the middle of the channel by now.”

They glanced in the direction Harris indicated, to the leaden expanse of the Bristol Channel not all that far away.

Stokes grimaced. “We’ve done all we can.” He nodded to Harris. “We’d best all get back before night sets in.”

“Aye, sir.” Harris touched his cap and gathered his lads with a look, and they trudged off to where they’d left their horses.

Barnaby and Stokes had left their mounts at the point where the stream from the falls entered the lake. They started walking back.

“I have to admit,” Stokes said, “I never thought to see the end of this—not so soon, nor yet so neatly.” He glanced at Barnaby. “Your father’s going to be pleased, and the other governors, too.” Stokes grinned and looked ahead. “And you’ll be back in London in time for the start of the Season, with all those balls and parties.”

Barnaby groaned. “That’s the one flaw I can see in Sinclair’s otherwise exceptional planning. As long as I was chasing some crime of that magnitude the pater would have kept my mother from descending on me—at least in person. Now…I’ll just have to invent some other investigation to excuse my disinterest until a real one comes along.”

Stokes regarded him affectionately through the gathering gloom. “But I thought that’s what all you toffs do—look over the young ladies presented and choose your wife from among them. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to go?”

“Theoretically, assuming one intends to wed. But I’m a third son. No real reason I have to get leg-shackled, no matter what m’mother and her cronies believe. Not that I’ve anything against marriage—not for others. Well, there’s Gerrard and Jacqueline, Dillon and Pris, and now Charlie and Sarah, and I can see and appreciate what they have, but…”

“Not for you?”

Barnaby wondered why he was speaking of such things, yet he and Stokes had grown considerably closer over the years they’d worked together; if there was one man who would understand his stance, it was Stokes. “It’s not so much ‘not for me’ as…can you honestly imagine a lady, Stokes—and do remember that my mother would gasp her last if I married anyone but a lady, and moreover one of suitable degree—can you truly imagine a lady of that ilk being content for me to devote so much of my time to something as unmentionable in polite circles as criminal investigations? To being perfectly happy when I drop everything and hie off into the country, or don some disguise and disappear into London’s underworld, in pursuit of some villain who needs to be exposed?”

“Hmm.” Stokes had attended enough tonnish gatherings in his official capacity to have some comprehension of what Barnaby meant.

“And that’s aside from the potential stigma involved, and the constant courting of tonnish excommunication if somehow I get things wrong.” Barnaby snorted. “It would never work. She’d be in hysterics in less than a week.”

After a moment he went on, “This—investigating and the associated endeavors—is what I enjoy doing most. I’m good at it, and you and the pater and the other governors need me. You have no one else who can take on this sort of work within the ton.” He hesitated, then continued, more to himself than Stokes, “This is my career. I’ve carved it out for myself, and I intend to pursue it, and there’s no lady on earth capable of making me turn away from it.”

Stokes made no response; Barnaby expected none. They reached their horses, swung up to the saddles, then looked at each other.

“What now?” Barnaby asked.

Stokes considered, then said, “I see no point in looking a gift horse in the mouth. With his fit of conscience, Sinclair’s made this easy for us, and I’m going to accept that boon. I’ll ride back tomorrow and report the presumed death of Malcolm Sinclair.” Stokes looked back along the rock-strewn stream. “I can’t imagine we’ll find any trace of him now.”

Barnaby nodded. Wheeling their horses, they headed for the Park.

Later that night, in the earl’s bedchamber, in the earl’s bed, Sarah lay slumped in her earl’s arms, warm, sated, and content, happier than she’d ever thought she’d be. Beneath her cheek, Charlie’s heart thumped, steady and strong. Although every muscle in her body felt unraveled, she tightened her arms about him.

“I had one bad moment above the falls—one dreadful instant when I thought I might lose you.” Lifting her head, she looked into his face, into his shadowed eyes. “You’d just managed to get your arm about the anchor post and I was trying to haul you up—and Malcolm drew the knife from his boot.”

Charlie held her gaze; raising one hand, he brushed back her hair and cradled her face. “You thought he was going to stab me?”

She nodded. “For one fleeting instant.” She shuddered, then laid her head back down, clinging to his warmth, and even more to him, to the solid reality of his body beneath hers. “But it was enough.” She tightened her grip on him even more. “I never want to lose you. I never even want to think of losing you again.”

His chest shook, a small, wry chuckle, then his lips brushed the top of her forehead. “Now you know how I feel. Just the thought of losing you is enough to…eradicate my ability to think.”

His fingers played in her hair, then smoothed, stroked. “I had no idea what he was about. All those things he said of me, most if not all were true, but I’d already realized for myself, or you’d made me see them, made me face the reality and see the need to change. All I could think about was what he might do with you once he realized I wasn’t going to argue, once he realized that I’d already accepted, was already embracing, all he wanted me to. Instead of listening to his lecture, I was thinking about how to get you to safety.”

Her lips curved. She dropped a kiss on his chest. “I couldn’t fathom his direction, either, but I never felt he was a threat to me. To you, I wasn’t so sure.”

“And now, amazingly, it’s over. Like some trial, we’ve won through to the other side, and the future lies before us, ours to make of it what we will.” He paused, then said, “I know what I want.” His hand found hers where it lay on his chest; his fingers closed around hers. “If you agree, we’ll live here primarily, spending only the usual few weeks in London—in spring for the Season, as much of it as you wish, and in autumn when Parliament sits. But for the rest, we’ll stay here, where there’s so much for us both to do. Here where we’re surrounded by family, estate, and the local community. They need us here, at home, and it’s where we should be.”